


It goes like this

by Saetha



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Shay/Liam, Shay's terrible coping methods, and I guess that sort of encompasses Shay's entire being doesn't it, this is very mean and then it's very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 15:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17900783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: “Why do you care?” Shay asks him again, as if he hadn’t posed the same question earlier already. “What is it to you, whether I live or die?”“Is it so hard to believe that people still care about you, Shay Cormac?” Monro draws himself up to his full height, a flame of real fury dancing in his eyes.It takes Shay until the next day to realise that it does, in fact, stem from worry.“I did not bring you to the Finnegans to heal because I am a kind-hearted old man. I did not introduce you to our efforts to better the city and give you the means to regain your ship and fight the bandits out of pure sympathy. I did it because I saw something in you; a man worthy to be saved, a man of extraordinary talents who still has plenty of use in him if he could just see beyond his own self-pity.”*There is a lot that Shay is grateful for in his life, despite the death he's wrought. Monro's persistence in dragging him back to life is one of these things; this is a story about  the little things in between, the words left unsaid, the memories treasured in the rare moments when death isn't hard on their heels.





	It goes like this

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this entire thing basically within a single day and now I feel like a mule kicked my brain. Sheesh. Anyway. Enjoy?  
> (Shoutout to the lovelies from our awesome ~~Assassin's Creed~~ Shay Cormac Appreciation Discord! This is all your fault!)

 

There is a story to be found, hidden amongst clouds of smoke and motes of ash. A story made of ‘ _maybe_ ’s and ‘ _what if_ ’s, wrapped carefully and tucked away inside the furthest recesses of memory. A story that comforts and hurts in equal measure; a story that survives, even if flesh might not.

*

 

_It goes like this:_

Shay is restless, floating, not knowing where he belongs. The night wraps itself around him with tendrils of shadow, compressing his chest with the weight of the dead, until he doesn’t know how to breathe. The bright dawn of day brings little enough comfort. Each laugh that he hears, each excited bit of chattering reminds him of the innocent souls that have perished by his hand and will never laugh again.

Monro finds him one day, tucked into the corner of a tavern. Perhaps Gist has fetched him; or perhaps he came of his own volition, to see how Shay is doing. He sits down across from him, scowling at the half empty bottle on the table. Shay isn’t even _drunk_ per se, but has no qualms admitting that it _was_ his intended end goal for the night. At least, if he’s drunk, he doesn’t have to think about what he’s done.

“Colonel Monro,” he says, inclining his head just an inch, mostly to show that he isn’t completely intoxicated yet. “A drink?”

“No, thank you.” Monro sniffs the bottle with a frown. “If you have to get yourself dead drunk, couldn’t you do so with better liquor?”

“It’s cheap,” Shay shrugs. The taste is really the last thing he cares about at the moment. “It has alcohol in it. Can’t all be as fancy as you are, Colonel.”

“A compelling argument.” Monro heaves a sigh, obviously displeased with what he’s seeing. There’s still an ounce of shame left in Shay, and he turns away instead of having to meet the Colonel’s gaze. “Still, I think you should perhaps forego the drink for the rest of tonight.”

“And why is that, Colonel?” The ounce of shame is evidently not enough to keep him from sniping at Monro, caught in a black mood as he is.

“Because it would be a shame to see such an extraordinarily talented man choke on his own bile in a dirt-ridden harbour tavern,” Monro replies. “You should return to your ship.”

“Not much there for me, is there,” Shay says, gloomily.

“Well. Your own bed, for once. And Gist, to make sure that you’re still alive and capable of sailing tomorrow morning.”

Shay has to admit that the Colonel has a point, even if he is still allergic to being ordered around. He stumbles to his feet and, daring Monro to say something, grabs the bottle. Whatever the Colonel’s objections, he isn’t leaving any of his drink behind, not when he’s paid for it with his own money.

“Lead the way, Colonel,” he says, spreading his arms in an exaggerated motion.

Monro sighs again, an annoyed edge to his movements as he draws himself up. He doesn’t look behind him to see whether Shay is following along as he leaves the tavern.

The walk to where the _Morrigan_ is docked in this nameless little harbour is a short one. The ship is mostly empty, except for the night watch and Gist, who nods at them as they walk past but, unusually for him, doesn’t say a single word. Perhaps because he can feel Monro’s annoyance radiating off him.

As soon as they are in his cabin, Shay offers Monro a seat and draws the bottle closer. His gaze falls on a piece of paper, left on his desk. His already dark mood blackens again at the reminder of why he’d chosen tonight to get drunk in the first place. He looks at Monro and makes no effort to hold back the biting mockery in his tone when he speaks.

“Are you normally taking this much of an interest into your…what did you call them…’new recruits’?”

“Well.” Monro shifts slightly in his seat. “Most of them I didn’t rescue from quite such perilous circumstances. If I had known that you’d just be dead set on drinking yourself to death, I might not have bothered.”

“Sorry for slandering your oh-so-generous gift,” Shay says sourly. “I can’t remember asking to be saved.”

“That’s because you were too busy dying.” Monro’s forehead creases in annoyance, his voice growing sharp. “Apologies for not asking for your _permission_.”

Shay grunts and makes a grab for the bottle to raise it to his mouth again, his arm brushing against the sheet of paper, sending it to the floor in the process. He doesn’t even have to look at it to feel the words screaming back at him, just the same as they did when he first picked the paper out of a bandit’s pocket earlier. The little group had attacked him for seemingly no reason; now he knows why. _If your suspicions are correct, and Shay Cormac is still alive, finding him is of the utmost importance. Dead or alive, he and everything that he carries need to be returned to us at the earliest possibility, for a suitable reward of course. – A Davenport._

From one second to the other Monro is there, his hand closing firmly around Shay’s, preventing him from taking another sip from the bottle. There is a surprising strength to his grip.

 “I believe I cautioned against the intake of more alcohol earlier,” he says. There is something lurking below the calmness of his voice, but Shay cannot quite tell what it is.

“Who are you to give me orders, Colonel? I am not your soldier.” Seeing the letter again has re-ignited Shay’s anger. No, he isn’t Monro’s soldier. He isn’t anyone’s soldier anymore, cast adrift on a sea of black moods, with nothing but the dead and his own regrets to haunt him.

“If you were, I’d have had you disciplined already.” And there it is, Monro’s façade finally cracking, revealing the anger beneath.

“Why do you _care_?” Shay asks him again, as if he hadn’t posed the same question earlier already. “What is it to you, whether I live or die?”

“Is it so hard to believe that people still _care_ about you, Shay Cormac?” Monro draws himself up to his full height, a flame of real fury dancing in his eyes. It takes Shay until the next day to realise that it does, in fact, stem from worry.

“I did not bring you to the Finnegans to heal because I am a kind-hearted old man. I did not introduce you to our efforts to better the city and give you the means to regain your ship and fight the bandits out of pure _sympathy_. I did it because I saw something in you; a man worthy to be saved, a man of extraordinary talents who still has plenty of use in him if he could just see beyond his own self-pity.” The last words are almost shouted, a rarity for the usually so soft-spoken colonel. Monro takes the bottle from Shay’s unresisting hands and sets it back on the table, with far more force than necessary.

“Perhaps, if you can not see any value in yourself on your own, you might consider the trust that others still place in you,” he says, before he turns around and exists the room, leaving Shay to stare after him with an undefinable mix of emotions churning in his stomach.

He doesn’t touch the bottle again that night, or many nights after.

*

 

 _It goes like this:_  

Monro stares out at the dark sea, eyes cast into the distance of the night. He doesn’t turn when Shay comes up next to him, only shifts slightly to make space at the railing of the ship. The _Morrigan_ is securely docked at her usual place next to Fort Arsenal, the crew dispersing in the city until they sail again.

It is curious that Monro is waiting for him out here rather than coming to Fort Arsenal itself. But then, his entire visit is curious – back at Ford William Henry, he had told Shay to meet in Onaquaga. His presence here is as much of a surprise as the place of their meeting.  For now, however, there is silence all around them, with no one anywhere near. A strange sort of peace, with nothing but the sound of the waves lapping at the _Morrigan_ ’s hull.

“I never understood people’s love for the ocean.” Monro’s voice is quiet and soft. He finally looks at Shay, his face illuminated by the light of the waning moon above them. “That is, until I saw you at the _Morrigan_ ’s helm.”

Shay doesn’t quite know what to say to these words, the compliment within them plain to hear.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“No, I should thank you; it is always a joy to watch people do what they were born for. And whilst your abilities in a fight are remarkable and not to be underestimated, you were clearly meant to captain a ship.”

“It…means a lot, coming from you.” And it does; Shay only realises this now, but Monro’s approval is something he has actively begun to strive for since those liquor-drenched days before the Colonel had dragged Shay out of the tavern and back onto his ship. It isn’t a perfect world he has forged for himself, especially with the beginning realisation that he is on his best way to become a Templar, but it is better than anything he thought he’d have a year ago.

“I am glad to hear that. It does me good to know that you have found your path again, Shay.” There is pride in Monro’s voice. “I can leave here with a light heart, knowing that you will not set out to destroy yourself again.”

“You talk as if you’re about to go to your own death.” Shay frowns, something clenching inside his chest. Monro’s presence has been steadying him for the past year or more, one of the pillars that he has built his new life upon. To be without his calming, steady reassurance is simply unthinkable.

Monro’s smile is thin and stretched in the moonlight.

“I am becoming old, Shay. My sixtieth birthday is only a few years away; and very few still on active duty in our Order are known to live that long. Usually our lives are cut short by an overzealous assassin sooner or later.” There is no mistaking the irony in his words.

“I can protect you, Colonel. Just say the word and I’ll come with you to wherever you’re going.” He’s done it before, defended him against Kesegowaase and his forces. He can do it again.

“Ah, the idealism of the young.” The smile on Monro’s face morphs into something fond and real. “Your talents would be wasted if they were used simply for protecting me. I was, frankly, convinced that I would not survive Fort William Henry. Each additional day is a gift I did not expect.”

He turns around then, so that the railing is on his side and he can look at Shay fully.

“There have been rumours of an attack on Albany. I have volunteered to head the defences.”

Shay grips the railing so hard he thinks it will splinter beneath his fingers.

“You once told me not to throw away my life lightly. You should listen to our own words.” His voice comes out rough and almost angry; but it is despair fuelling it, not rage. If Kesegowaase attacks again, with more Assassins in tow and the French on his side, there is no telling what will happen.

“I am not throwing anything away,” There is the glint of something fierce in Monro’s eyes, a part of the steely will that has seen Shay through the worst of the days after his former brothers left him for dead. “But there is a chance I will not return, yes.”

“Then why are you here? If not to ask me to come with you or make me tell you not to go?” Shay moves just a little closer, their hands almost touching on the wood of the railing.

“Perhaps I just wanted to see you again.” Monro’s gaze is transfixed on his face. Shay notes the fine lines around the man’s mouth and eyes. Time has painted her story on the Colonel’s face, in wrinkles and the tiny scar close to his ear, invisible most of the time unless you get as close as Shay is right now. It is a symbol of a life lived fully, more attractive in its character than the smooth façade of youth.

“You could have just said so from the start, instead of frightening me with tales of your nearing death.” Shay tries to sound light-hearted and almost succeeds. “Nonetheless, I’m glad you came.”

Monro licks his lips, his face flickering away from Shay’s face and back again.

“I am happy to hear that my intrusion wasn’t…unwanted.”

Shay doesn’t know whether it’s the strangely strangled tone of his voice, or the moonlight that hits the soft curve of Monro’s cheek just so, but he is the one to lean in first, giving the Colonel plenty of time to move away. Monro doesn’t, reaches up to grasp Shay’s arm instead, a pain in his eyes that Shay’s never seen there before.

“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care,” Shay whispers.

The kiss is entirely different from those he’s shared with Liam before; tentative at first, a careful probing before Shay becomes more emboldened, sliding his hands around Monro’s broad back to kiss him again, more firmly this time.

“I should’ve done this long ago,” Shay murmurs, pressing his forehead to Monro’s cheek. There is the soft rumble of a laugh from Monro in reply.

“No, it would’ve been wrong. I would never…I couldn’t have made any advances towards you when you were still reeling from your losses and riddled with guilt. I am capable of many things, but I would never have taken advantage of you.”

“You’re far nobler than I’ll ever be.” Shay draws back a little so that he can look into Monro’s eyes. There is joy in them, yes, but also a faint note of regret. Whether it is regret about things past or things yet to come, he doesn’t know.

“But not noble enough not to allow myself this tiny bit of selfishness when my own time is assured to be so much shorter than yours.” Monro lifts up his hand, carefully pushing a strand of hair away from Shay’s face.

“If it’s selfishness we’re criticising, then I am the most selfish of all,” Shay says. A smile flashes across his face, lost and alone. “I would be glad to be a part of your happiness, for however many years remain.”

Monro nods, his hand never straying far from Shay’s body as he grips his shoulder.

“Then perhaps, at least for tonight, let us both be selfish.”

*

 

_It goes like this:_

It is late at night when knocks on the door to Monro’s room. Despite the lingering warmth of autumn in the air throughout the days, the nights are cold, especially here in Onaquaga, away from the large cities of Boston and New York.

“Come in,” the Colonel’s voice calls from inside. Despite the late hour, he is still sitting at his desk and working. Exhaustion is etched into his features, but he still lights up when he lays eyes on Shay.

“Shay. Is anything the matter?” He rises from his seat and stretches. It is endearing to see the man without all the weight of his uniform or wig, dressed only in a vest, shirt, pants and boots.

“No, everything is calm outside.” Shay closes and bolts the door, taking a deep breath. They both know why he’s here; he’ll be leaving to help the Oneida against the French tomorrow, and Monro will depart for Albany. “It’s just me. Feeling like I should already be gone, feeling like I should stay here. Always running out of time, no matter what I do.”

Monro comes close then, reaching out to trail his fingers down Shay’s arm.

“There is never enough time,” he agrees. Shay surges forward to kiss him then, to put all his half-spoken emotions into a touch, since he cannot put them into words.

“You kiss like a man who is about to drown,” Monro remarks lightly. The touch of his hands is steady and reassuring, and if he closes his eyes, if he just _pretends_ , Shay can make himself believe that everything will be fine.

“Perhaps I just want to drink my fill, not knowing when I’ll next get the chance,” he replies. Monro laughs.

“A romantic streak! Not something I would have expected from you, Shay.” If he has noticed the tinge of desperation in Shay’s touch, he doesn’t comment on it. “Perhaps you should consider a career as a poet.”

“If I am a poet, then you should become a vegetable seller, seeing that your profits would rise significantly thanks to all the rotten fruit being thrown my way,” Shay grins in reply. “No, I think I will keep doing what I am doing now.”

Monro steps back ever so slightly and sighs a little. His hand trails over Shay’s body, fingering the buckle with the Templar cross that holds the belts over his chest in place.

“You know you could already be a Templar, if you so wished.”

“I know.” It’s not the first time they’ve spoken about this. Monro first made the offer after Fort William Henry, saying he thought him ready and that he had informed Grand Master Haytham Kenway of the same, and recommended Shay for the Order. “I just…”

 _I just need a little more time._ To become a Templar, one of the same organisation he was taught for most of his life to hate…it would mean to sever the very last ties to the Brotherhood that, despite everything, had taken him in and given him a home when he had desperately needed one. He wasn’t quite sure whether he was ready to take this final, irreversible step yet.

“Still burdened with regrets?” Monro finished the sentence for him.

“Not regrets, not exactly.” Shay shrugs. He can’t quite put the feelings inside him into words, not yet. “Or perhaps, a few. I just feel I’m not…quite ready yet, to sign my life over to another organisation working in secret for the better of mankind.”

“Understandable.” Monro nods. “The offer will remain, however, until I or Haytham see fit to withdraw it. Just…promise me that you will honestly consider it.”

“Of course.” Shay’s gaze falls onto the sash with the Templar cross, rolled up neatly on Monro’s desk. In the future, perhaps. “I promise.”

Monro seems pleased enough for now, and there is nothing to keep Shay from pulling him in again, with all the vigour of youth, as Monro loves to jokingly call it. Shay rushes into the contact between them, deliberately loosing himself in the touch, letting the little moans and sounds between them drown out the fear inside him. It is pure selfishness, he thinks, remembering their conversation on the ship a few weeks ago. Pure selfishness to keep lying skin to skin with the man who he has such affection for, instead of granting them both the sleep they so desperately need. And yet, he remains, even when the sweat is cooling on their skin, and the Night Watch outside calls out the change of guards.

“Promise me you will not court death on purpose,” he says, staring at the ceiling. Monro shifts beside him, the bed creaking dangerously under their combined weight.

“I am not you.” There is only a small laugh floating in Monro’s voice as he replies. Shay sniffs in annoyance.

“But I promise I will do everything I can to keep myself safe,” Monro adds and that, Shay can live with.

*

 

_It goes like this:_

The ring sits snugly around Shay’s finger. Such a small piece of jewellery shouldn’t be so heavy, but he feels as if its weight is pulling at him with every step. If he lifts it up to his face, he can still smell the fire on it, see flecks of dried blood tarnishing the silver.

It is Gist who finds him, weeks after they have buried Monro and returned to New York. He isn’t drinking this time, choosing instead to drown out the numbness of the grief inside him by committing himself tirelessly to the cause that was so dear to both their hearts, fighting the bandits and restoring as much of the city as he can.

“I hear you have been busy,” his First Mate says genially, as he looks around Shay’s working room in Fort Arsenal. Most of the surfaces are covered with papers of one kind or another, with plans and budget lists. In one corner is a pile of clothing Shay has been repairing; he still carries the bandages around his upper arm where a bandit knife has slashed through both coat and shirt and bitten deeply into his skin below.

Shay gives him the hint of a tired smile and shrugs.

“I had to do something,” he replies.

“The crew was wondering when you were planning on sailing again.” Despite his love for stories and embellishment, Gist has never been one to skirt around an issue. “Although they are enjoying the respite on land, the men are growing restless.”

“I know. My apologies.” Shay scratches his forehead. The light of the candle catches on the Templar ring on his finger, drawing Gist’s gaze to it, although he is tactful enough not to say anything. Shay sighs and takes it off his finger. He’s made the decision days ago, written the letter and all. Perhaps now is finally the time to put it into action.

“The Templar Grand Master. Is he here in New York?”

“Not presently, no. At the moment, business has called Master Kenway to Boston, I believe.”

“Not too far, then.” Shay nods to himself. “If I pay for a fast horse, will you be able to reach him before he leaves again?”

“Likely, yes.” Gist frowns. “And what message should I bring to him?”

“Tell him that I accept his offer,” Shay looks up then, away from the ring and straight into Gist’s eyes, before he digs out an open envelope from the mess on his desk. He drops the Templar ring inside, seals the letter, and hands it to his First Mate. “And give him this, as a token of my word.”

“You’ll be joining the Order.” It isn’t even a question.

“Yes.” He could’ve said: _Monro wanted me to_. He could’ve said: _I’m doing this not for me, but for the ideals of a man who helped me find a new path in life._ He could’ve said: _This one I do for love, for kindness, for loyalty. Not for violence._ But all that comes over his lips is: “It seems like the next logical step.”

“I’m sure Master Kenway won’t object. I heard that the Colonel recommended you repeatedly.” Gist sounds rather satisfied at the prospect that his Captain will finally be part of the Order as well.

“So I was told.” Shay is careful not to show too much emotion in his voice. His grief is something that he has kept private; it would feel like a betrayal of the Colonel’s trust, were he to speak their secrets out loud.

Gist excuses himself quickly afterwards, the letter clutched firmly in hand. As soon as the doors of Fort Arsenal have closed behind him, Shay walks into his bedroom and over to the nightstand, with a small candle in hand.

Monro’s garter star glimmers brightly in the light, shining out at him when he opens the drawer. Its edges are smooth and cold in his hand as he picks it up, rubbing his finger over the cross in the middle.

“I’ve done what you asked me to,” he says quietly. There is no answer from the token in his hand, of course there isn’t. But if Shay closes his eyes, he can feel the memory of Monro’s smile ghosting over his skin.

“I just wish you were here to see it.”


End file.
